It Goes Without Saying, Baby
by Thrice Written
Summary: A compilation of my Sweethearts Week 2012 one-shots from the USxUK LJ Community. Categories will range from romance to fantasy to angst and back again, but two things will remain consistent: our beloved boys, and LOTS of smut. Enjoy!
1. DAY ONE: Poking and Prodding

**~ x ~ x ~ x ~**

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><p><strong>[Day 1]<strong>

**"Close to You"**

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><p><em><strong>POKING AND PRODDING<strong>_

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><p>Despite the fact that their relationship has lasted nearly half a decade, Alfred has yet to have sex with his beloved boyfriend.<p>

No, he doesn't know how that's possible, either. They had stumbled together at the peak of the new millennium — Alfred only sixteen, and Arthur three years his senior — in what can only be described as a whirlwind romance. Any other couple in their position would have been all over each other, blaming either the heady influence of teenage hormones or the equally-intoxicating fear that the apocalypse would descend on their heads at any moment. But that hadn't been the case with Alfred and Arthur.

They had come close — oh, God, they had come so _close_, but some unknown power (fate? subconscious judgment?) always pulled them apart at the last moment. If it wasn't premature ejaculation (their old enemy), then it was Alfred's cat, Superman, with his persistent, mood-killing meows and skritches at Alfred's bedroom door, or Arthur's forever-changing roommate, returning after an alcoholic dorm party to find two partially-nude boys making out on his bed. Four years of what felt like a secret cock-blocking conspiracy, and Alfred is pretty much convinced that some higher being out there just doesn't want him sticking his dick inside Arthur or Arthur putting his inside him.

Not that he has a major problem with what they already do. It hadn't taken him long to find out that Arthur is an absolute _fiend_ with his mouth and his tongue and occasionally his teeth, too, if Alfred will let him. Alfred himself is quite skilled with his hands, if Arthur's gasps and hisses are anything to judge by when the two of them are rolling around on a bed or a couch, lost in feverish groping. But sometimes it just feels like it isn't . . . enough. Which doesn't make all that much sense to Alfred, since he _knows_ their love more than makes up for the lack of sex in their relationship, and why would his body consider sex to be closure anyway, when it required his (or Arthur's) entering a place that isn't really meant for that kind of activity in the first place?

Biology has never been Alfred's strongest subject. But it still manages to get the best of him at the most inconvenient times, and today's the only day of the weekend that he knows Arthur has free, so he resolves to settle this issue once and for all by buying some lube and condoms and calling Arthur to invite him over. Arthur sounds nonchalant and unaffected over the phone, but he's there in fifteen minutes.

After giving his mom his most pointed _I'm twenty and therefore perfectly entitled to bring my boyfriend up to my bedroom and close the door_ look (at which she raises an eyebrow, but doesn't protest), Alfred tugs Arthur upstairs and proceeds to do exactly what he'd intended: he pushes the lightly-built blond onto his bed and locks the door with a very firm _click_.

Arthur sits up, slightly ruffled from being handled so boldly, but also amused. "Impatient, aren't we?" he says, just a touch of a British accent palpable in his voice, as he folds his legs under him and looks around. Alfred catches the longing that flashes briefly across his face — he must be thinking of his own room, which is back across the pond in London, and maybe even silently envying Alfred for living close enough to his college that he's able to room at home — and his chest suddenly hurts. He knows that Arthur's sacrificed a lot by choosing to study overseas.

But he also knows that there is a time and place for these kinds of moments, and that here and now simply won't do. Besides, seeing Arthur acting melancholy makes Alfred sad as well, and he doesn't want to ruin the mood before they've even begun. So without further ado, he pounces.

They kiss. Their lips touch, press together, and draw apart; then they do it again. Alfred looks down, down into Arthur's face, and he catches a glimpse of dewy wintergreen eyes before Arthur's hands are at the back of his head, pulling him down again. This time Alfred practically flattens Arthur into the mattress with his enthusiasm, no longer content with chaste little pecks as he opens his mouth and, with his tongue, invites Arthur to do the same. Arthur complies for about five seconds, then Alfred feels his muscles grow taut under him.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

Arthur grunts. "You're crushing me."

"Oh, sorry!" Alfred quickly props himself up on his elbows to give Arthur some breathing room. He switches his target from Arthur's lips to Arthur's forehead, then his bristly (beautiful) eyebrow, then his nose and his cheek and . . . Arthur's mouth finds his chin, his tongue flicking against the underside of his jaw in a way that makes Alfred break off in a breathless chuckle.

He loves losing himself to Arthur's kisses. Arthur knows exactly when to lick, when to bite, when to take dominance and when to relinquish it. Their teeth still collide sometimes, but only if one of them is being particularly sloppy, and it never hurts for more than a second or two. Alfred tilts his head, delves deeper, the tip of his tongue gliding along Arthur's ridged palate, a little disappointed that Arthur doesn't really taste like anything. He can't deny that the sweetness of the lemon tea that Arthur likes to drink — the flavor of which often lingers in his mouth long enough for Alfred to savor it himself — turns him on.

Being connected to Arthur like this is so nice that Alfred almost forgets what his original purpose is. It's only when Arthur shifts under him and his crotch grazes against Alfred's thigh that Alfred finally recalls that he has a mission to complete.

"Arthur?" he whispers, and when Arthur's eyelids flicker open lazily, he chooses his next words with care. "Do you want to . . . try something new?"

His question is met with curiosity. "Like what?"

Oh, God, now he can't stop the heat from staining his cheeks, because Arthur is watching him so intently and with such obvious love. "Um. I was thinking . . . maybe we could, I don't know . . . uh, try fingering, maybe? Or something?" It seems the only things his tongue is good for when he's around Arthur are kissing and giving blowjobs. Speaking properly doesn't make the list.

"Fingering?" Arthur repeats. For an instant, Alfred is sure that he'll rebuke the idea, toss it out the window and demand that he never mention it again, but he's pleasantly surprised when Arthur appears to actually consider it, blinking once before saying thoughtfully, "That might work. Do you have the necessary supplies?"

"If you mean lube, then yeah." Alfred fishes the bottle out from its plastic bag under his pillow for inspection.

Arthur glances at the label and snickers. "Have a fondness for cherries, do you, Alfred?"

"Cherries?" Alfred turns the bottle toward himself, confused, and sees the phrase _cherry-scented_ stamped across the front in bubble letters. "Oh, shit, I totally didn't see that. I just grabbed the one at the front, I thought it'd be — Are you allergic? I mean, you've never said anything before, but if you are, then — uh — we can —"

A butterfly kiss lands on his Adam's apple. "Relax, darling. I'm not allergic. I doubt they used real cherries to scent it, anyway." Another kiss, this time higher up, placed on the soft, vulnerable, _sensitive_ flesh where Alfred's neck meets his jaw. Alfred can't suppress the small shudder that runs through him. He's made even more helpless when Arthur latches on gently with his lips and begins to _suck_.

Through the distraction, he faintly registers the movement of Arthur's slender white hands; one slides into the right back pocket of his jeans to cup the curve of his backside while the other hooks fingers through a belt loop at his waist. He's pulled closer into the warmth of Arthur's slim body, and Arthur releases his throat to murmur into his ear, "I'd like to try it, love, if that's all right with you."

"Uh! Th-then can we . . . do it after . . . ?" Alfred can't think. His brain has turned to hormone-laced mush.

"Do what?"

"Do . . . _it_ . . . like, you know . . ."

Arthur laughs. "I don't understand what you're trying to say, love."

"Sex!" blurts Alfred. "Can we have sex?" He realizes what he's said about a heartbeat after the words become irretrievable.

Arthur doesn't reprimand him, though. "Let's think about . . . _that_ . . . after we've managed the first hurdle, hmm?" he says easily, soothingly. Almost as if he isn't taking Alfred's sentiments seriously. Alfred rolls his eyes — it annoys him when Arthur treats him like a kid, especially in bed — but decides to prove his feelings to Arthur later, because Arthur does have a point.

He dislodges Arthur's arms and rises to his knees, setting aside the bottle of lube for now. He's temporarily mesmerized by the steady rise and fall of Arthur's chest, the way it causes his shirt to ride up ever-so-slightly, pale skin peeking at him over the crest of his black jeans. His gaze travels farther down, and just to confirm what he's seeing, his hand comes up to check. Sure enough, Arthur's cock rises to meet his palm through the fabric covering it, its shape hard and definitive. Alfred looks up and sees Arthur's slow, reassuring smile, and he feels the blush return to his face.

Making short work of his boyfriend's pants, secretly loving how familiar and practiced his motions have gotten over the past few years, Alfred guides the denim — along with the light blue underwear — off Arthur's legs. Arthur spreads his knees apart, offering Alfred a full view of his private regions, but Alfred's attention is immediately drawn down _there_, to the tiny, dusky-pink opening that he'll be pushing his fingers into soon . . .

"Arthur," he breathes, "are you a virgin?"

Arthur reaches around, under his bottom, and casually forks two fingertips around the puckered ring. Legs still open, he looks Alfred right in the eye and replies, "Here? Yes."

Alfred nearly chokes. His boyfriend — his_ fucking gorgeous twenty-three-year-old boyfriend _— is an anal virgin. Holy _shit_. The sheer hotness of it makes his hands tremble. And the way Arthur is touching himself now, gently teasing the hole as if he intends to . . . to . . . Alfred grabs his wrist to stop him and scrabbles desperately for the lube, unable to wait any longer. He twists the cap, breaks the seal, clumsily spreads the gel-like substance on his hand —

"On your fingers, Alfred, not your palm," Arthur instructs, and sweeps his shirt out of the way. Alfred follows his direction, his hands still shaking like crazy. He's probably used up a fourth of the bottle, but that's fine, since he can always buy more. He starts to put his fingers to Arthur's entrance, but Arthur says hastily, "No, wait for it to warm up a little before you . . . before you put it in."

"Why —" Alfred begins to ask, then realizes that if he _doesn't_ wait, the lube will feel extremely cold and clammy to Arthur. The very _thought_ of having anything _cold_ and _clammy_ in such a sensitive place causes him to cringe. After sitting there awkwardly for a bit with his fingers covered in lube, Alfred finally receives Arthur's consent to keep going, and eagerly reaches for him again.

Arthur jolts when Alfred tries to fit in three fingers at once, and hisses in pain. "One at a time, poppet," he says, voice strained.

"Ack. Sorry." Alfred curls all of his digits back save his forefinger. This he uses to probe at the hole, fascinated by the way it twitches slightly under the pad of his finger as if it's _alive_. Which it technically is, since it's a part of Arthur. He slowly pokes his fingertip in and watches the ring of muscle swallow it up. It puts up some resistance, tight flesh unwilling to yield to the intrusion, but Alfred persists with the utmost care, and his finger is soon knuckle-deep inside Arthur. His muscles are clenching down on Alfred, and they kind of cut off the blood to his finger as they constrict. Alfred, however, is too excited to mind. "Whoa! You're really, really tight down here!"

"Indeed." Arthur is gripping the sheets, a tense expression on his face. His thighs quiver with effort as he fights visibly with the urge to close them. "Alfred —"

Alfred notices his discomfort, glee vanishing. "Oh, fuck — does it hurt? Should I stop?"

"No . . . just give me a moment."

Gradually, Arthur allows Alfred to move his finger. Alfred swirls it around, trying not to stretch Arthur too much before he's ready. He marvels at the texture of the walls inside, the heat that they radiate, and admires the smooth glide of his finger as well as the way Arthur parts around him as he moves. He's never attempted to finger himself, so for him, the experience is entirely new. And absolutely intoxicating.

After a few minutes of silence, Arthur speaks up. "Try to find my prostate," he says, almost sighing, as his hand comes up and closes around his cock. "Touching it will — nn — make me feel better . . ."

"Uh . . ."

Arthur bites his lip as he pumps himself faster. "Go ahead. . . . You can add another finger, too, if you like."

"Arthur . . ."

"Yes?"

Shifting to relieve the stress on his knees, Alfred says hesitantly, "I don't know where your prostate is. Or what it feels like." He slides another finger in beside the first, and the pressure around them doubles. Arthur takes a deep breath.

"It's — it's several centimeters inside the opening . . . curl your fingers toward my stomach . . . no, _toward_ my stomach . . . upward . . ." He pauses, his breathing erratic. His eyes are scrunched up, whether in pain or pleasure, Alfred can't tell. "Since I'm aroused, it should . . . feel firm to the touch . . . it's about the size of a — a walnut — ah, ah, not so hard! Your nails are sharp!"

Alfred prods the swollen area with less force. "Is this it?"

Arthur lets out a low moan. "Y-yes," he gasps, and tugs at his cock with increasing speed.

Happy that he's finally doing _something _right, Alfred continues to massage his fingertips against the gland, noting by its feel that it seems to be partly made of some kind of muscle. Arthur twitches with each movement, his free hand clamping over his mouth to muffle some of his louder cries. There are swears mixed in there, too, but Alfred can tell that it's because Arthur feels good, not because he's hurting. He gives the gland an experimental push — and Arthur practically shrieks, biting down hard on his knuckles as his fingers seize around his length. His abs convulse, and he actually curls in on himself as white, transparent fluid wells up at the tip of his cock and begins to drip down the sides. Alfred watches with wide eyes.

Then, after he falls back against the sheets with a _thump_, Arthur's arms drop across his stomach. He regards Alfred with a hazy, satisfied look before his eyelids slide shut. All the tension has left his body, leaving him limp as a cloth doll.

It takes Alfred a minute to react. "Arthur?" he says uncertainly. He slowly removes his digits from his boyfriend, breaking the suction, and Arthur's breath hitches momentarily. "Arthur, did you just . . . come?" Alfred glances dubiously at the thin, milky liquid that's pooled around the base of Arthur's softening cock. It looks different, and it didn't spurt out like he'd expected it to. . . .

"Mm," Arthur confirms. He cracks open an eye and sees Alfred's bewildered expression. "Ah, stimulating the prostate doesn't quite result in a normal orgasm . . ." A sigh. "But it feels just as incredible . . . if not more so . . ."

Well, that's good. Being selfless and making Arthur feel amazing, however, has left Alfred wanting. He rubs his clean hand against the zip of his jeans mournfully, considers asking Arthur for help, then decides against it in favor of letting Arthur rest. He remembers the package of condoms that is still stashed away under his pillow, and knows that it'll have to wait until next time.

He sidles down between Arthur's legs and laps at the spilled semen, pushing a hand down his pants to jerk himself off. Arthur mewls appreciatively — such a sweet, uncharacteristically feminine sound that it makes something in Alfred's chest flutter. As such, it takes him all of two minutes to reach his own release. Wincing, he realizes he's dirtied both of his hands, which eliminates the option of getting in bed and cuddling with Arthur. Hoping to remedy that, Alfred looks around for the box of tissues he keeps in his room and, after finding it, wipes off his hands before discarding the used bits in the wastebasket by the door.

By the time he returns to Arthur's side, the latter has fallen into a gentle doze, strands of pale hair brushing over his closed eyes. Alfred crawls up onto the bed next to him. He pulls the covers up over the two of them without bothering to shuck off his clothes, and immediately goes to nestle into the hollow of Arthur's neck, where he breathes in the faint aroma of lemon tea, serenely content as he joins Arthur in slumber.

He doesn't mind waiting, after all.


	2. DAY TWO: Beyond the Mists

**~ x ~ x ~ x ~**

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><p><strong>[Day 2]<strong>

**"Once Upon A Time"**

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><p><em><strong>BEYOND THE MISTS<br>**_

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><p><em>King Arthur AU. Heavily influenced by Marion Zimmer Bradley's book, <strong>The Mists of Avalon<strong>._

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Who would have expected that Arthur would become a suitable High King for Britain? Alfred had had a premonition — an inkling — that Arthur would grow out of his scrawniness and into the position he was in line to inherit from his father, but it was not because he possessed the Sight. _No_, Alfred thought glumly, _my mother may be the Lady, but I have none of her magic; I am blind as a bat. Even Arthur has been favored with certain enchantments, and he is a full generation farther from the royal line of Avalon than I. _Sometimes Alfred felt the Goddess had not cast her hand fairly upon him when she was deciding his fate.

But who was he to question her will? His mother was, after all, her most devout priestess, and Alfred had been conceived during the Beltane fires nineteen years ago. Beltane, the Goddess's festival, the festival celebrating the fertility she had brought to the land, had united the Lady and his father; he himself would not even exist if it were not for the Goddess. Thus, he had not the privilege to speak ill of her.

Still, he could not help but wonder. He knew the Goddess had multiple faces: the maternal, ever-loving one that she was so well-known and loved for . . . and the visage of a cold trickster. He wondered if he had not unwittingly fallen victim to her darker side, her cruel deceit, the moment he fell in love with Arthur's new wife, Lilli.

And in love with Arthur himself.

It did not take him long to realize that his yearning for the Queen was merely an extension of his yearning for the King — the two people in the whole of Britain that he could not have, could never have. They were both untouchable, venerated, almost deities in their own right.

He knew Arthur cared very much for Lilli, the sweet, fair-haired maiden princess of the kingdom adjacent to Britain (_though a maiden she is in name only_, Alfred could not help thinking, fire twisting in his gut, _since she is his lawful wife and he has undeniably taken her to bed countless times since their wedding night_). And he had seen Lilli look upon Arthur as if he was the sun, though the way she looked at _Alfred_ was far more tender and tentative, almost shy. . . .

But Alfred knew that though he was Lilli's champion, her knight, her love, it was not Lilli he truly wanted. No . . . the powerful tug within his body guided him toward Arthur. Arthur, who was his cousin, his King, his dearest friend, the man forbidden to him in a hundred ways and yet enticing to him in a thousand more.

It made Alfred sick with longing and internal turmoil.

Beltane seemed to arrive faster than usual that year. Since the royal blood of Avalon flowed thickly through his veins, Alfred was more affected by the pagan festival than most people. The heat rose in him, wild and turgid and irrepressible, and he fought to keep it from dominating him as he attended to his usual duties as the King's keeper of horses. He was very well-respected in the stables, almost revered — not only for his exception skill at taming the graceful, long-legged animals, but also because he was one of Arthur's Knights, one of the twelve that had the honor of sitting at the Round Table every evening (the same Round Table that Lilli had brought to Camelot as part of her dowry, a special gift sent by her father, from one king to another). The stableboys bowed before him as he entered; Alfred acknowledged them with a nod. He needed to go for a ride to clear his mind and dispel his uneasiness.

Again, his body stirred restlessly, even as he made to saddle his favorite stallion. He could barely control the shaking in his hands. The horse, no doubt sensing the change in Alfred, was skittish under his touch. He let out a soft whinny and shied away when Alfred attempted to fit the reins on him. Alfred murmured quiet, reassuring words, gently stroking the stallion's glossy black coat, and managed to outfit him correctly just as he heard footsteps behind him.

He spun around, and saw Arthur.

The King paused in his path when Alfred turned to him, as if hesitating. He was rather small in stature — slim and supple, about half a head shorter than Alfred — but his very presence radiated esteem and elegance. He was wearing sturdy boots and a dark green riding cloak that brought out the color in his eyes quite nicely, and he had a weary, harassed look on his face. Alfred wondered why.

"My lord," he said cautiously, keeping his voice as light as he could.

Arthur waved a hand, dismissing the title. The absence of the crown that usually adorned his head made him appear softer, almost vulnerable. "It's Arthur. There's no need for formality between us, dear cousin." He flicked a cursory glance at the horse at Alfred's side. "Do you intend to go out?"

"Yes. I need the fresh air."

"And I a change of scenery. I hope you won't mind if I join you. It's been a long day, and I would be glad for a chance to cast my worries aside for a while." As he spoke, Arthur prepared the chestnut-colored mare a few stalls away for riding, declining the assistance of the young boy that had come forward but thanking him all the same. Alfred watched his pale, slender hands fasten the saddle in place, watched the fringe of his blond hair fall over his eyes and watched Arthur brush it aside distractedly. Something tingled in his chest, but he quickly quelled it, swinging himself up onto his horse a little haphazardly. Arthur didn't appear to notice Alfred's unsteadiness.

They rode outside the gate and down the path that wound down the hill. Arthur sat straight-backed in the saddle, his head held high, his cloak sweeping smoothly down his back and about his ankles. Alfred had to admire his posture. He himself was neither a shoddy nor a careless rider, but Arthur's naturally regal bearing put him to shame.

After a bit, Alfred broke the silence. "Is there something bothering you?"

Arthur looked sideways at him. "Does there seem to be?" he said, voice deceptively idle. Alfred raised his eyebrows.

"I thought we were past talking in riddles."

"It wasn't a riddle."

"Then stop avoiding my question."

"I'm not avoid —" Arthur began to counter, then stopped and gave up the pretense of unconcern. "All right, perhaps there are a few matters occupying my mind, but none of them are of great importance," he conceded with reluctance.

"And yet they're still troubling you." Alfred knew he would have to coax Arthur into answering, and was fairly sure that Arthur knew as well. Neither of them would give in easily to the other; they were — as Alfred's fellow Knight, Gilbert, liked to jest — as stubborn as a pair of asses, not even taking into account Arthur's pride or Alfred's deliberately selective hearing. "Come, Arthur, tell me. I don't want you to bear the burden alone. Is it the Saxons? The Christian priests?" He hesitated. "The Queen?"

"All three, unfortunately," Arthur said tightly. He knew, of course, of Alfred and Lilli's feelings for each other, as did most of the court. He was always flawlessly courteous to both his wife and his cousin in public, and amiable enough in private, but Alfred could see that it did great damage to his dignity. Perhaps it even hurt him; no husband liked to be cuckolded, especially not the High King of Britain, and Alfred was sure that Arthur harbored at least some genuine affection for Lilli. Alfred's status as Arthur's cousin only complicated things further. But he couldn't help what he felt for Lilli . . . or what he felt for Arthur.

He shifted his hold on the reins. "Tell me about them?" he asked, wishing that Arthur would overlook the strain in their relationship long enough to share what was on his mind. He didn't want him to keep everything pent up, didn't want to watch him grow unhappier and tenser as time went on. "Please?" he added softly.

Arthur's mouth quirked in defeat. "All right, all right. There's no need to make puppy eyes at me." His smiled turned bitter. "Really, the Saxons have been a problem since before my father took the throne. I was seeking a way to ally them to our cause, but . . . it appears to be a hopeless endeavor. The other Knights agree, do they not? Our cultures differ too greatly, and it is all I can do to keep my men from slicing open their throats upon sight." He sighed. "I pray that our clashes with the Saxons will have ceased when it is my turn to step down and pass the kingship to my heir."

"Which will be a long time yet," interjected Alfred cheerfully. "The Saxons' weapons will have rusted through during the wait, and for the better. You're only three-and-twenty — far too young to be thinking of retiring, Arthur. Though I don't think having an heir could go amiss . . . or be a bad thing to consider."

"Precisely. And therein lies another source of my increasing anxiety." Arthur looked away, across the grass pastures spread across the land before them, as if he was searching for the answer to an unanswerable question in the landscape. "It has been a year and a half since Lilli and I were wed. A year and a half, Alfred." He turned back, and Alfred saw the pain — the shame — in his eyes. "Do you not think that it has been ample time for an heir to come if . . . if God saw fit that Lilli should bear one?" The true meaning behind his words was left unspoken, but clear nonetheless: _I, the King and ruler of this land, am not man enough to beget a child on my own wife, a task that even the most common of farm animals can accomplish with their mates._

Alfred wasn't sure how to comfort him, aside from saying lightly, "Well, the Goddess is the one who decides whether or not you will have children, so perhaps you would fair better by praying to her?" He was about to add that none of the young women _he'd_ bedded had ever come to him claiming to be pregnant with his son or daughter — to assure Arthur that he wasn't entirely alone in this or to show that maybe it was only luck that defined these things, but stopped himself. No doubt Arthur would interpret it the wrong way, and it would lead their conversation back to the uncomfortable subject of Alfred's relationship with Lilli.

"The Goddess," Arthur murmured. His hand strayed toward his waist, where the Sword of Avalon was strapped to his belt in its woven scabbard. He ran his fingers absently across the jeweled hilt. "That is the third and final topic that brings me such distress."

They had reached the fork in the main path. One route would lead them to Tintagel Castle, which was home to the Lady Aislin — Arthur's half-sister, a protégée of the Lady of the Lake, and queen in her own right. The other — poorly-tended, bristling with underbrush and weeds — snaked past Glastonbury Isle and into Avalon itself (but only showed the way to the ones who knew how to transverse it). It was rarely used, for the priests and priestesses of Avalon preferred to part the mists that hung across the Lake, and make their pilgrimmages that way, but its destination was by no means uncertain. The superstitious folk, pagan and Christian alike, often warned passers-by to avoid that road lest they lose themselves in the Fairy land that often crossed with Avalon during the solstices and equinoxes.

Alfred was certain that Arthur knew all of this. Their mothers were sisters, after all, though only Alfred's mother had chosen the path of serving the Goddess. Yet when faced with the split in the path, Arthur wheeled his horse to the left, toward the overgrown little trail, as though it was the natural course to take. Silent, Alfred nudged his steed to follow him.

"Lilli urges me to cast away the influences of Avalon upon Britain and its people," Arthur was saying, his voice sounding hollow and tired. Alfred noted the thin wisps of pearl-white that were beginning to permeate the air around them, but made no comment. If they continued on this path, they would soon reach Avalon; Alfred had been tattooed with the twin serpents in days past, rich blue ropes with emerald eyes that were still wound about his wrists, and those symbols of Avalon would be enough to clear the way for them. But Arthur showed no sign of wanting to turn back.

They rode on.

Alfred was only half-listening to Arthur now. The rhythmic throbbing in his core, the one that called out to the Goddess during Beltane, the one that desired to pay tribute to her with his body, was growing stronger with each step. He caught snatches of Arthur's words, his weary explanation that Lilli's deep piousness had led her to begin a quiet but resolute campaign against Avalon and its "devil-worshiping" practices. The conflict between the two religious factions was fast coming to a head; Arthur did not want to be forced to choose a side, for the support of his followers and the lesser kings and nobles hung in balance, but he also did not wish to estrange his Queen and her equally Christian father. If he did not make his decision soon, Britain would tear itself apart over the dispute, and he would lose the throne. But Alfred knew Arthur cared less about being High King than he did about his people.

_He would not choose Christianity_, he thought. _He wears the sword of Avalon at his waist; he had received it during his Kingmaking by swearing an oath to defend Avalon, by vowing that should he ever enter into war, he would fight under the ensign of the Lady with Excalibur in his hand. His supporters will follow him under no other banner. They will not see the Goddess thrown from her pedestal, nor will they let the serpents be supplanted by the cross of Christ, and neither will I._

His skin tingled, and his body jerked forward involuntarily as molten flames balled in his gut. The mists were thick around them, so thick that Alfred could hardly make out the silhouette of Arthur and his horse at his side. The air had warmed considerably. At last, several paces farther into the whiteness, the curtains of vapor were siphoned into nothing, revealing lush greenery and its silver-blue overtones. Alfred's skin was prickling, sparking, _alive_ as it reacted to the magical intensity in the air.

They had entered Avalon.

"Why have you brought us here?" Alfred asked quietly. Arthur gave him no response. His pale, determined face confirmed Alfred's suspicion that he had known where he was taking them all along.

Their horses appeared to sense the shift in atmosphere. They became calmer, more purposeful, and the young men found themselves being carried along into the forest without their consent. As they rode, Arthur said unevenly, "It is rather hot here," and tugged at his collar. He slid free the pin fastening his cloak and removed it, but even that did not seem to alleviate his discomfort. A bead of sweat glided down his temple, and his eyes were half-lidded, feverish. Alfred could not tear his gaze away. The unmistakable desire in him rebelled against his inhibitions, and his hands tightened on the reins, palms wet with perspiration.

He forced his eyes down, and said in reply, "It's from the Beltane fires. The heat from them travels long distances, especially within Avalon." He tried not to think about what the fires were for, tried not to think about the people that were gathering and copulating around them — people just like Arthur and him, because that was all they were, mere humans, with every right to attend the Beltane ritual and give the Goddess her due . . .

Clothing rustled. Alfred looked up, just in time to see Arthur sway and, grip lax, topple sideways off his horse. He lunged across the short distance between them and managed to catch him, grunting at the sudden strain on his shoulders and back as they overstretched. Their horses continued to amble forward at an oblivious trot. The gap widened as Arthur's mare began to move more quickly, and Alfred had to either let go of Arthur and let him fall or step down from his saddle to hold him up. He chose to do the latter, and just managed to ease Arthur down from his perch before both horses broke into a gallop and disappeared deeper into the trees, leaving their riders stranded.

At somewhat of a loss, Alfred watched them go. _I am a fool_, he thought, mentally berating himself. _It is Beltane — of course the humans are not the only ones affected by it. I should not have chosen a stallion to accompany Arthur, since he was riding a mare._ He realized he was still half-crouching on the ground, with Arthur slumped awkwardly against him, and moved into the shade of a nearby tree to lay him down. "Arthur?" he said, concerned. "Arthur, what ails you?" Arthur stirred, his eyes fluttering open, his countenance pallid under the transparent flush that was spreading across his cheeks. His hand came up and fisted the front of Alfred's shirt in an iron grip.

"The heat," he whispered hoarsely. "How do you bear it? It saps at one's strength like a leech . . . and muddles the head until one can hardly think. Alfred, you are of the Avalon bloodline, it must be the bane of you when Beltane comes . . ."

"It's not easy for you, either —" Alfred was about to point out that Arthur, too, was descended from the Avalon line and was clearly suffering as much as he was, but abruptly cut himself off when Arthur's other hand rose to rest upon the side of his neck. "Arthur?" he said uncertainly, frozen. Arthur's fingers were unnaturally warm against his skin.

Arthur was breathing hard, almost panting. "Alfred . . ." He drew the Knight down by the hand he had on his shirtfront. "Please," he said softly, fingertips burning into Alfred's chest, "please . . . tell me what you do . . ."

Alfred swallowed. "What do you mean?"

His head was buzzing from being so close to Arthur, and he was acutely aware that Arthur had pulled him forward between his legs, positioned him to hover over his body, their faces a handspan apart. Arthur winced a wave of some nameless emotion rippled through him, and let out a low hiss. His hair was mussed and saturated from sweat, his clothes in similar disarray. He looked as though he was in pain.

"Please, Alfred . . . tell me how it . . . it . . ." Arthur struggled with his words. "How do you . . . cope with this?" He let go of Alfred to reach down himself, his hand tightening over the ties of his breeches, over the shape of his hard member through the fabric.

_Oh, Goddess, help me_, Alfred thought desperately, wildly. _This cannot be happening._ He did not know whether it was gratitude or an entreaty for mercy. "S-surely you know how to — to pleasure yourself?" he said shakily.

"I do, but this . . ." Arthur threw his head back, the delicate muscles of his neck taut. "I need something else," he admitted weakly. "Some . . . some . . . I cannot put a word to it . . ." He shook his head, helpless, and his fingers left Alfred's neck to wrap around his wrist, pulling it downward. "I — I hardly know what I am doing, but . . . I need this." He pressed Alfred's hand over his own at his crotch. "Please help me," he begged.

Alfred's breath hitched in his throat upon both the contact and hearing Arthur's plea. Arthur _never_ pleaded, never asked for assistance for anything because he thought himself capable of feats beyond even other men of his own station. His pride would not allow him to bow low enough to seek the resources of others when he did not truly need it. Yet now, he was begging Alfred for aid and, in the same gesture, allowing himself to be touched so intimately . . .

_But it is Beltane._ Alfred's mind spun, hazed over. _It must be the Goddess's will._

With trembling hands, he began to unlace Arthur's breeches.

Arthur's fingers joined his own, undoing the ties, pulling down his undergarments enough for Alfred to touch him. He was hot in Alfred's palm, so aroused that Alfred could almost feel his pain. His breaths came low and harsh, his limbs shook, and his hands scrabbled at Alfred's back when Alfred pressed against places that were particularly sensitive. Still not quite believing what he was doing — or who he was doing it to — Alfred kept his strokes long and fluid, feather-light, not sure how Arthur wanted it or what he was accustomed to, but unable to bring himself to ask.

Eventually Arthur's gasps gave out altogether, and Alfred felt his seed, wet and warm and sticky, on his fingers. Something inside his head snapped, and nervous energy began running through his body even as Arthur lay limp below him, sated. He stared down at his hand, at the traces of white streaking his knuckles and dripping down his fingers, and felt the ground tilt.

He startled when he felt Arthur touch him, gently grasp his hardness. "I suppose . . . you'll want me to return the favor," Arthur said faintly, almost timidly, and though Alfred's desire was screaming at him to submit to Arthur's tentative ministrations, Alfred abruptly pushed his hand away and surged to his feet.

He loved Arthur. He knew he did. But what he had just done . . . it made him sick to his stomach with guilt and regret, as well as a dark, gnawing shame. He should never have followed Arthur into Avalon, because now he knew why Arthur had led them there. He should have guided him to bed, tucked him in, then fetched Lilli to him and left them in peace . . . and let Beltane run its course.

_How long?_ Alfred wondered, his knees nearly buckling beneath him as he turned and staggered away as fast as he could walk. _How long has he felt this way toward me? To what lengths must we betray Lilli — to what lengths must we betray each other and ourselves? Oh, Goddess . . . _And one last question flew through his mind, even as he broke into a run, even as Arthur's cries for him to return echoed around him:

_Goddess, what has your will led me to do?_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: If you can guess who the different characters mentioned in this fic represent in the Arthurian legend, you can have my thirdborn child. :D**


	3. DAY THREE: Devil's Guidance

**~ x ~ x ~ x ~**

* * *

><p><strong>[Day 3]<strong>

**"Taking Care of Business"**

* * *

><p><em><strong>DEVIL'S GUIDANCE<br>**_

* * *

><p>If you ask the staff at the Academy what they think of Mr. Alfred F. Jones, they'll tell you he's a polite, friendly, charming young man whose love for his job clearly shines through in his attitude and his treatment of the students. If you ask the students for their opinion on Mr. Jones, the majority of them will probably shrug and say, "He's that really nice counselor they hired last year." Of course, this answer varies depending on who gives it. If it's one of the jocks, their eyes will light up and they'll go into a rant about how awesome Coach Jones is during track practice. If it's one of the members of the steadily growing, all-girls fanclub dedicated to him, well . . . she'll need tissues for her nosebleed soon.<p>

There's one person who will provide you with a slightly different answer, though. You'll have to hunt for a while to find him; he almost never attends any of his classes, preferring to skip them to smoke cigarettes on the roof or sneak off campus to do God knows what. He always hangs out with the same crowd, all delinquents like him: Antonio Carriedo, the handsome Hispanic guy who wears a smile but carries a switchblade; Lovino Vargas, Antonio's foul-mouthed, kleptomaniac boyfriend; and Gilbert Weilschmidt, the gangly albino with a grin full of canine teeth and drunken good humor. Sometimes they're joined by the student population's ladies' man, Francis Bonnefoy, when there's a bottle of alcohol to pass around — but if you see Bonnefoy with them, there's a good chance that the person you're looking for won't be there at all. That's because there's a lot of bad blood between him and Bonnefoy, but that's a whole other topic. Long story short, you'll have to go elsewhere to find him.

If you do manage to track him down, you might not even have the balls to approach him, what with his scowl and thick eyebrows and shining silver piercings, but you can try anyway. He'll pin you to the nearest wall with his smoldering green eyes and, if you're not careful with your words, with his fist as well. At the mention of Mr. Jones, his face will turn blank, as if wiping his expression clean is something he practices often.

Then he'll open his mouth and say, very deliberately, "Jones is an arsehole — and a faggot. Stay the fuck away from him."

And that's all you'll get from Arthur Kirkland. But in all respects, it's more than enough.

**-x-x-x-**

"Ah . . . ah . . . no, it hurts . . ."

"Liar. You always say that."

The young man is a trembling wreck beneath him. He clutches at the edges of the desk, trying to anchor himself, but the next thrust slides him across the polished surface and knocks a stack of papers to the floor. The sheets float serenely down to meet the carpet.

Alfred impatiently nudges Arthur's legs higher up onto his shoulders. "Wonderful," he mutters. "Another mess to clean up. You definitely owe me a blowjob for that."

"It wasn't my fault — _uhh_!" Arthur's breath hitches in pain as the school counselor changes the angle to abuse his tailbone.

"Of course it's your fault. If you didn't come in here begging for a fuck, that would never have happened."

Tears are welling up in Arthur's eyes. "I didn't beg . . . you were the one who slammed me down on the bloody table in the first place . . ."

A second of hesitation. Then, "Shut up, you little whore," and Alfred grabs his cock.

With the direct stimulation, it doesn't take Arthur long to come. He shudders and groans, then waits for Alfred to finish up. Afterward, the two of them exchange a hard, breathless kiss before separating, wiping up the evidence, and righting their clothes. As he rebuttons his black shirt, Arthur shoots Alfred a smirk. "How was it?" he asks, smugness written all over his face.

Alfred winces as he adjusts his glasses on his nose. "Well, I know _you_ like it, but I don't really think I'm into the whole rough-and-sort-of-rape scenario." He buckles his belt and runs a hand through his hair, watching somewhat sheepishly as Arthur wriggles back into his skinny jeans.

"Well, it was a nice change, wasn't it? I was getting tired of fucking as _us_," said Arthur casually, and ignores how Alfred grimaces at the indelicate way he'd put it. He glances at the clock. "When is your appointment with the next student?"

"Ten forty-five."

"Good . . . we still have a few minutes. Come here and kiss me again, love."

Neither of them are able to get horny just minutes after reaching climax, so after a handful of seconds, Arthur ends it with a firm nip to Alfred's mouth and draws back. His face is hard, apathetic, but his half-lidded eyes glow with genuine fondness. "I wonder how long it will be until we're caught," he says thoughtfully as he surveys Alfred's face.

Alfred's mouth tightens, and he slides his arms around Arthur's slender waist to pull him to his chest again. "I don't want to think about that," he mumbles into the side of Arthur's neck, trailing his lips up the smooth skin to the shell of his ear, where he kisses his piercings — tenderly, one by one, as if they're precious gemstones — and caresses his soft, feathery blond hair.

"When they find us, you'll lose your job," Arthur continues blithely, eyes glinting, savoring his own words and Alfred's touches. "They'll fire you, then send you to jail for molesting the sixteen-year-old student that you were meant to be counseling . . . the young man you were supposed to be leading back to the right path. A wayward sheep in need of a shepherd indeed, hmm?" He sighs as Alfred's mouth finds and begins to suckle the sensitive hollow just below his jaw. "They'll make me out to be a martyr, and write _you_ off as the son of a bitch that ruined the poor, misguided soul of Arthur Kirkland for good."

"Arthur." Alfred pulls back, adamant. "Stop."

Arthur just laughs and places a kiss on his cheek. "You know I don't mean any of it, love. You know I —"

"Yes, I know you've loved me since the day we met," says Alfred, almost sullenly. "I've — I've corrupted you. And hearing you talk about it like that doesn't make me feel any better about . . . about this situation." Alfred captures his mouth again. Arthur lazily pushes him backward onto the desk, then straddles his lap, thin arms folding him into a relaxed, affectionate embrace. They stay like that until the bell that signifies the end of the period rings.

Reluctantly, Alfred detaches Arthur from him. "You should go."

"Mm." Pulling him forward for one last peck, Arthur moves off to shoulder his backpack. "I'll see you soon, Mr. Jones," he says, the words proper though his tone — low, sexy, confident — is anything but. Alfred turns red.

"Yeah . . . see you."

Just before he walks out, Arthur pauses, prompting Alfred to look at him questioningly. When he sees that he has the counselor's full attention, he whispers, practically _purrs_, "I think I'll give you that blowjob I owe you after school ends. Is that all right with you, Mr. Jones, or should I come back at a more convenient time?"

Alfred blushes harder. "I — I didn't . . . you don't have to. I mean, it was just roleplaying . . ."

"Oh, but I don't mind at all." Arthur waves a hand airily, carelessly. "After school, then." With a befitting air of arrogance, he walks out of Alfred's office, leaving the man to stare in a daze after him.


	4. DAY FOUR: Are Those Mittens?

**~ x ~ x ~ x ~**

* * *

><p><strong>[Day 4]<strong>

**"Holidaymaking"**

* * *

><p><em><strong>ARE THOSE MITTENS?<br>**_

* * *

><p>Nations are hardly ever afforded any vacations, not when the unity of the entire country depends on their presence at important conferences to reach consensus on national (and international) affairs. However, a nation's mood also affects the country, and that's when their intrinsic power over the people and the land itself comes into effect — and suddenly, America isn't the only one capable of uprooting trees and overflowing rivers and causing insurgent uprisings.<p>

Which is why England has been shipped overseas by his boss to spend some time "de-stressing" . . . though the country that's been picked to be the edgy, green-eyed island nation's caretaker is among the people that's most capable of winding him up.

"Dude," says America, staring at the TV with wide eyes. "You know, those those big-ass storms over at your place are gonna start causing some serious problems if you don't chill out."

England shoots him an icy glare over his teacup as he sets it down. "I have absolutely no control over the weather, so don't you even _begin_ insinuating such," he snaps. There's a particularly sharp crack of thunder onscreen that makes even the meteorologist wince. "And before you dare say anything else, that was a _complete_ coincidence!"

"Whoa, whoa, okay, whatever floats your boat, baby. Just don't take it out on the poor folks living over there." America hurries on before England has the chance to explode over the pet name. "But you gotta admit, something in you's definitely doing some crazy stuff to the sky over there. And those waves — are you trying to turn the UK into another Atlantis? 'Cause I hate to tell you . . . if you keep that up, you're gonna succeed, and Ireland'll be the first to go."

"You twat! How many times do I have to tell you that Ireland is _not_ a part of the UK?"

"It's not?"

England slams down the book he'd been reading. _Pride and Prejudice_ hits the coffee table with enough force to splinter the glass surface. He surges to his feet and strides out into the hall. "You're bloody insufferable," he throws over his shoulder, before storming up the stairs like a (not so) miniature force of nature.

_What's _insufferable_ mean again?_ America wonders, but chooses wisely not to voice his thoughts out loud. _Gosh, England really needs something to help him calm down._ He looks around for inspiration, and his eyes land forlornly on the damaged tabletop. _Dammit, that table's lasted me almost thirty years. He just had to go and flip his shit on it, huh? I gotta find something to do that'll make him relax . . . like, soothe him . . . something that won't take ages of preparation 'cause every minute means more screwy weather in London or Birmingham or wherever . . ._ After thinking for a few more seconds, he suddenly has an idea, and runs upstairs. Instead of going after England — who he can hear banging around behind the closed door of the guest room — America heads into his own bedroom, making straight for his walk-in closet and nearly tripping over a pile of clothing on the way over.

There's a locked leather trunk in the very back, the one where he keeps all of his . . . er . . . not-suitable-for-children toys. America slides the key out of its hiding place on the highest shelf.

_Oh, boy, England's gonna love this_, he thinks, grinning.

**-x-x-x-**

A few minutes later, England hears a knock on his door. He scowls without opening his eyes. "What do you want, America?" he demands.

"I got something for you, sweetheart."

_Bloody colloquialisms . . . and knowing him, it's probably a hamburger. Or Call Of Duty._ "Then get your fat arse in here, put down whatever it is, and kindly leave."

He can almost hear the pout in America's voice. "Aw, England, that's really mean! I'm not fat! And you shouldn't insult my ass — we both know how much you love ramming your dick up it."

England doesn't bother answering him.

"And I kinda can't really come in — my hands are, um, occupied. It's something that'll make you happy, I swear! So . . . can you open the door for me?"

More silence.

"Pretty please?"

England rolls his eyes.

"With whipped cream and a cherry and some sex on top?"

_Good Lord, after insulting me, the tosser has the _nerve_ to ask for sex?_ England turns his head to burn a hole into the door with his stare. But, since it's _America_ — his stupid, idiotic, and infuriatingly irresistible boyfriend — asking (and so nicely, too), England can't hold out for long. He rises from where he'd been stretched out on the bed, cursing his own weakness, and opens the door. "What have you got for me, then?" he begins to say with an air of resignation, then stops short when America holds his hands up.

"These!"

For a moment, England isn't quite sure what he's seeing. "Are those . . . _mittens_?"

America beams. "Yeah! _Sex_ mittens!"

"What?"

Before he knows what's happening, America is pushing him backward into the room, shutting the door with his foot, and pretty much steamrollering him into the bed with his enthusiasm. After he's satisfied that England is properly pinned down by his weight, the younger nation straddles England's waist and gets comfortable, then — just to be cheeky — grinds his backside into his lover's crotch. England hisses in surprise.

"You wanker! What are you _doing_?"

"You . . . hopefully?" The little lilt at the end of the presumptuous statement effectively undermines England's anger. _Why is this brat so good at pushing all of the right buttons? _he thinks, trying to summon up the fighting spirit in himself and failing.

America takes this opportunity and, once again, holds up his hands, showing off the giant, fuzzy white mittens encasing them. "These," he says cheerfully, "are what I'm gonna use to make you feel good. So just lay back and relax, okay?"

"It's _lie_, not _lay_," England grumbles, but America's already moving on.

"I read about these mittens somewhere online, and the site says if you do it right, you can really turn your partner on and make sex feel super intense. So I was like, _Awesome!_ and ordered a pair. I just got them last week."

England eyes them skeptically. "How do they work?"

"Well, basically, you gotta take your clothes off, and I'll kinda just . . . feel you up with them."

"What? I am _not_ going to let you run those — those _things_ all over my body!"

"But it's supposed to feel really, _really _amazing!" America sticks out his lower lip. "C'mon, England, I always try out whatever new kinks you come up with. Why can't you play along just this once? I really wanna make you happy, 'cause you've been all pissy lately and you're practically drowning your country with rain and waves and stuff. So it's for the sake of both you _and_ your people." He pauses, then adds hastily, "But mostly for you. Even though I'm the hero and I always think of everybody."

Sighing, England contemplates his options. He still wants to resist, put up a good fight, if only for the sake of his pride as the former British Empire, but he has to agree that America makes a valid point. A few valid points, actually. So he finally gives in. "All right. Fine. I can tell that you mean well, so do what you want with those." He gestures at the mittens, his brow creasing slightly in distaste.

"Yay! You're not gonna regret it, England!" America paws for a second at England's shirt. "Uh . . . can you get naked without my help? I can't really do anything with these on . . ."

"Then take them off, you idiot!"

". . . and I wanna see you strip," America finishes. England claps a hand to his forehead, exasperated.

"Oh, _fine_. Get off me first. I can't do anything with you flattening me into the mattress." America obeys, and watches as England sits up and begins unbuttoning his shirt. England tries not to meet his eyes, but he can feel his gaze traveling up and down his body, lingering in all of the right places, and feels a blush creeping up into his cheeks. Once it's off, he folds the shirt and begins working on his pants, shivering a little from the exposure of his chest, arms, and back to the air.

America murmurs, "You're so sexy," and the heat in England's face intensifies.

He's down to his boxers now. And, looking up, he can't help but feel extremely nude when he sees that America's still wearing all of his clothing. "W-well, aren't you going to take your clothes off, too?" he demands, embarrassed.

"Of course. Just not right now." America waves the mittens for emphasis. His eyes never leave England's body.

Deciding that he can at least _try_ to balance out the playing field, England crosses his arms. "I'm not taking this" — he plucks the waistband of his boxers — "off until you satisfy me. So start doing whatever it is you're planning to do." He lies back against the pillows and spreads his legs challengingly. _Two can play this game_, he thinks with a smirk.

America leans down between his knees. "Okay." He takes a deep breath, then places both mittens on England's collarbone and begins, tentatively, to rub them against his bare skin. England blinks, flinches a little, surprised by the ticklish sensation created by the fuzz. America watches him intently. "Does it feel nice?" he asks, almost shy.

"I . . . I'm not quite sure," England answers honestly. America's hands trail downward, and brush teasingly against his erect nipples, which are already sensitive from the slightly chilly air. "Nn . . ." England bites his lip.

Sensing that he's on the right track, America pinches the small nubs between his fingertips, feeling for them through the furry material, and rolls them gently. England's body jerks a little.

"Ah . . ."

The mittens slide down to his ribcage, then his abdomen, where they trace smooth, slow circles against the quivering muscles there. The stitched edge of a mitten dips into England's navel, and this time really does draw a half-moan out of him. England's eyes begin to close; his body is almost tingling from America's touch. His skin feels sensitive, _awake_, and he's more than aware of the way his cock is pushing up against the fabric of his boxers when he bucks his hips up. America seems to understand, and runs the mittens down past his waistline and over his groin.

England arches. "Oh, God."

"Feeling good, pumpkin?" America asks softly, and England almost berates him for using another one of those abominable nicknames, but is cut off when America's hands begin to knead his erection.

"_Yes_," he says instead, in what is definitely _not_ a whimper. A smile spreads across America's face, and he bends down to place a kiss on England's throat as he continues to tease him with his fingers. England's pulse races, his breaths coming in rapid little gasps. At last, when he can't stand it anymore, he reaches down to brush the mittens aside and pulls America down on top of him. He doesn't need to say what he wants. America chuckles knowingly against his neck, and the vibrations shoot straight down England's spine and to his cock. A mewl escapes him as he buries his face in America's shoulder.

He can feel America moving in his embrace, and when America's bare hands wrap around his waist and cup his backside, England intentionally pushes his hips up against him. He feels, with satisfaction, that America is just as hard as he is through his jeans. America's mouth finds his own, their lips parting to fit together, and it all dissolves into a race to see who can get America's clothes off the fastest, England's boxers lost somewhere along the way in the whirlwind of fabric.

America's hard breaths match his own, and when America grabs his hand, twines their fingers together, and guides them downward toward their cocks, England grips at the nape of America's neck, certain through the haze of lust clouding his mind that his fingernails are leaving white marks in America's tanned skin, and not caring because America is _his_ and he'll never give him up, not as long as they both exist. Their rhythm is fast, strong, careening out of control at the end because neither of them can keep their hands steady, and England reaches his climax, muffling his cry by sinking his teeth into America's shoulder. America winces, the sudden pain a shock to his system; England's hand works harder to push him over the edge and succeeds, making America tense his jaw before he lets himself collapse soundlessly on top of the island nation.

When they both drift down to float in the afterglow of their orgasms, America cuddles England close to him and whispers, "See? I told you the mittens would work." England hides his smile in America's warm chest.

"It's stopped raining," he says.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Yes, fuzzy mittens designed especially for foreplay really do exist. (Guess who wants a pair? Hehe.)**


	5. DAY FIVE: I'm Good For Something

**~ x ~ x ~ x ~**

* * *

><p><strong>[Day 5]<strong>

**"Music Of My Heart"**

* * *

><p><em><strong>WITH YOU, I KNOW THAT I'M GOOD FOR SOMETHING<br>**_

* * *

><p>"<em>Life is a mystery . . ."<em>

America looks up from his DS.

"_Everyone must stand alone . . ._"

He raises an eyebrow. If his ears are working right —

"_I hear you call my name . . . _

_ And it feels like . . . home . . ._"

Dropping his video game console on the couch, America walks out of the living room and tiptoes around the corner, a grin slowly spreading across his face. He peeks into the kitchen, his hunch confirmed.

England, wearing a frilly blue apron (America has no idea where he found it), is busy sweeping the floor. Slotted in his ears is the pair of earphones that America bought him for Christmas about four months ago (the same ones that England claimed he would never use); the wires snake downward and disappear into the pouch on the front of the apron, where the rectangular outline of an iPod is clearly visible. He's turned away, his head bowed, so he's completely unaware of his audience as he continues to sing quietly, his voice pitching just right on the high notes and deepening into a half-purr on the low ones.

"_When you call my name, it's like a little prayer_

_ I'm down on my knees — I want to take you there_

_ In the midnight hour, I can feel your power_

_ Just like a prayer. You know I'll take you there . . ._"

America, still mostly hidden behind the wall, is torn between rushing forward to pull England into a bear-hug and bursting into laughter. At the same time, a traitorous little spiral of heat comes to life in his lower abdomen. Surprised, he has to slap a hand across his mouth to muffle his giggles when England begins swaying in time to the music that only he can hear, still oblivious to America's presence.

"_I hear your voice . . . it's like an angel sighing_

_ I have no choice — I hear your voice . . . _

_ Feels like flying . . ._"

His British accent is absolutely, appropriately, and adorably attractive.

"_I close my eyes . . . _

_ Oh, God, I think I'm falling_

_ Out of the sky . . . I close my eyes_

_ Heaven help me —_"

Tilting his face toward the ceiling, he clasps his hands in mock-prayer. Unable to control himself any longer, America collapses noisily against the wall in a storm of laugh-snorts. England apparently hears him through the earphones, because he yelps and spins around, his cheeks turning the color of a maraschino cherry, and suddenly America finds the blunt end of the broom being jabbed under his chin like a sword.

"You!" England prods the handle against America's Adam's apple, using perhaps a little more force than necessary in his attempt to cover up his embarrassment. With his other hand, he quickly pulls out the earphones and stuffs them into the apron pocket. "You were trying to sneak up on me, weren't you, you damned prat?"

"Ahaha — ha — oh, shit, dude . . . you have some badass reflexes." America swallows the last snicker in favor of keeping his throat intact. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I just heard you singing, and . . . hehe . . ." He breaks off again into weak chuckles. Oh, geez, if he wasn't horny before, he's definitely been turned on now by England's _I used to be a pirate, so don't fuck with me_ act.

England's face glows bright crimson, and he splutters, "Shut your trap! I'll have you know, y-you used to love listening to me sing you lullabies when you were a colony!"

"That was like, what, four hundred years ago? Five hundred? And I never said I didn't like your singing!"

"Yes, you — wait. What?"

"Yeah, you heard me right." America bats aside the broom and slides closer to England, grinning. "Keep singing, baby. I love your voice," he says, close enough for his breath to tickle England's ear. As England — who's even more flustered now — struggles to regain his composure, America throws both arms around him and swings him up over his shoulder as easily as if England weighs no more than a stuffed animal. England lets out a very (un)manly shriek and swats at America's head. The broom drops to the floor with a clatter.

America ducks, laughing, and carries him directly into the adjacent dining room, where he plops the fuming island nation onto the tabletop. "Let me go!" England demands with all the dignity of an angry kitten, and squeaks as America manhandles him onto his front on the mahogany surface. "Git! Tosser! What are you _doing_? Oi! You _wank_ — oomph —"

"Oh, sorry 'bout that," America says, sounding more amused than apologetic, as he spreads England across the table, peels the apron off him, and tugs his shirt out of his pants. England thrashes, but his strength is no match for America's. America grabs the edge of England's sweater vest, pulls it off, then rapidly undoes all the buttons of his shirt before casting that aside as well — leaving the island nation nude from the waist up.

He gasps as the cold air slithers across his skin. "America, what in the world — stop yanking my clothes off! We're in the bloody _dining _room!"

"But I just realized that listening to you sing _really_ turns me on." Leaning down, America presses his lips to the small of England's bare back. England flinches, and flings his legs out in a vain attempt to kick him.

"Then at least move us to the bedroom, you twit!"

"Huh? But that's _all_ the way upstairs. I don't wanna walk that far. I don't think I _can_ walk that far." America grinds his crotch against the back of England's thigh to demonstrate his point. "See? Jeans chafe like crazy when you have a boner!"

A shudder goes through England, which intensifies when America's move makes his nipples touch the _very_ cold tabletop. He stutters, trying to summon back some of his pride, "I absolutely refuse to let you bend me over your dining room table, you spoiled little —"

"Wait, I just got an idea!" America's warm weight abruptly disappears from his back. Two seconds later, he's gone from the room, and England hears his footsteps thumping up the stairs and around on the second floor. He sighs in frustration.

"I thought you said walking around in jeans would chafe?" he mumbles, using the edge of the table for leverage as he gets back to his feet. Hoping that whatever his boyfriend just thought of keeps him occupied for a good minute, England reaches for the shirt that America had flung randomly over the back of the nearest chair. He just manages to worm his arms back through the sleeves, however, when America rampages back down the staircase, brandishing his own iPod and the customary lube-and-condom duo. Whatever happens next is a blur, though; all England knows is that when it's over, he's on the table again, this time on his back and _entirely_ naked. The table legs wobble violently as America clambers up to hover over him, making short work of his own T-shirt, jeans, underwear, and socks and discarding them on the floor. He leaves his dog tags on, however, and they gleam against the backdrop of his healthy, bronze chest.

England eyes him warily. "What are you planning to do?" he asks. "You can't put it in when we're in this position . . . _oh_." The last word comes out in a rush of air when America grasps his cock and starts stroking it.

"I'm not putting it in," America replies, his hand speeding up, England twitching in his grip.

"You're not?" England begins to catch on. "You . . . you can't be serious. After throwing me around like a rag doll and asserting your dominance like a complete _idiot_, you're just going to — ?"

"Yup. I'm letting you top, sweetie." America dumps some lube into his hand, then smooths it over his fingers. Taking a deep breath, he bends forward, supporting himself with a hand on the table beside England's head, and reaches around himself. "Uhh . . . ," he groans as he breaches himself with the first two fingers. England watches, dumbfounded, as the pre-sex blush begins to seep into his lover's face.

"Are — are you sure?" he says shakily. He has no qualms about topping, but is used to being on the bottom whenever America really gets into the mood for sex. It's mostly because America, utilizing his superior body shape, practically wrestles him into it, but England would be lying if he says he doesn't enjoy it.

"Yeah, I'm — _ah_ — I'm sure." Apparently done with preparation, America eases his fingers out to rip open a condom pack and roll it in place over England's cock. He applies a generous amount of lube, then hoists himself up. "Okay, here we go!"

Contrary to England's expectations, however, he doesn't immediately allow England to penetrate him. Instead, he snatches his iPod from where he'd put it on the table and begins furiously flicking through it.

"America, what —"

"Well, I know you're embarrassed and stuff 'cause I told you I love your singing, so I thought I'd make you feel better by singing to you, too — then we'd be even!" America says cheerfully, still scrolling through his playlist. He finally seems to find the song he's looking for, because he taps the screen once and cranks the volume all the way up before setting the device down again.

Music begins to blast through the tiny speakers.

"_Let's have some fun, this beat is sick, _

_ I wanna take a ride on your disco stick . . ._"

England doesn't have the chance to protest before America drops down, taking him in to the hilt, and begins belting out the lyrics along with Lady Gaga as he builds up a steady rhythm.

"_I wanna kiss you — but if I do, then I might miss you, babe_

_ It's complicated and stupid_

_ Got my ass squeezed by sexy Cupid_

_ Guess he wants to play . . . wants to play_

_ A love game, a love game . . ._"

"Bloody — !" England chokes out as America intentionally squeezes his cock, not sure whether he's scandalized or aroused out of his mind. "America — slow down — I can't take —"

America ignores him. "_Hold me and love me_," he bellows, his voice jolting slightly as he picks up the pace, "_. . . just wanna touch you for a minute. Baby, three seconds is enough for my heart to quick!_"

"Wait —"

Breaking off in a gasp, America looks down at England — eyes at half-mast, lips parted, obviously excited by what they're doing — and gasps, "How's it, England? I'm a good — oh, _fuck_ — singer too, right? I bet I'm even — _ohh_ — better than you!" His dog tags are bouncing on their chain, clinking together in a wild counter-rhythm, as he rides England even faster. "_Jesus Christ _— you're — so big — so hard — inside — _ah_ —" He loses coherency when England's hands close around his hips and bring him down to meet his thrust. "England — !"

To shut him up, England yanks him down into a ferocious kiss that sets both of their nerves ablaze, and that's all it takes for him to lose it, moaning as he comes inside America. America shudders, his wet inner walls quivering around England, as he aches for his own release — and England tugs on his cock once, twice, three times before the younger nation's cum splatters across his chest.

"Oh . . . _shit_," America moans, then flops forward on top of him. England wordlessly nudges his face closer, and their mouths meet. They kiss for a few moments before America slowly draws away and nuzzles his face into the groove of England's neck. "Oh God," he pants. "That was . . . fucking intense . . ."

England plucks the iPod from its place about a foot away and clicks the volume all the way down. He's also breathless. "It was indeed."

"Did you like . . . my singing?"

Wrinkling his nose, England cups the underside of America's thighs and gently guides him off. "You could have chosen a better song," he admits at last, running his hands up the soft curve of America's backside.

America laughs quietly, relaxing into his touch. "The one I really wanted to sing for you isn't as . . . erotic."

England snorts. "So you chose the song based on its compatibility with sex?"

"We were gonna be doing it anyway, so I was like, hey, why not?" He chuckles again. "I guess it was kinda _too_ erotic, though. I think that's the fastest we've ever come since we got together. . . . Not that that's a bad thing."

"Heh." They stay like that for a little more, then America slides off to let England up. After spending a brief moment cleaning up the mess they'd made — and making sure that they hadn't knocked any screws loose or done any permanent damage to the table — America pulls England upstairs to his room, where they fall onto the bed and wrap around each other like vines.

America whispers, "Do you want me to sing you that other song?" England pulls him closer.

"Yes, love."

The younger nation reaches for a remote on his nightstand and points it at the stereo on the dresser. "I was listening to it the other day, and it made me think of you," he says softly, and presses listen in silence for the first verse. Then, when the cue for the chorus comes, America begins to sing.

"_Looking at all or nothing_

_ Babe, it's you and I, with you I know that_

_ I'm good for something, so let's_

_ Go and give it a try_

_ We've got our backs against the ocean_

_ It's just us against the world_

_ Looking at all or nothing, babe, it's you and I_

_ Looking at all or nothing, babe, it's you and I_. . ."

England feels tears starting to form in his eyes, and buries his face in America's collarbone. As the music continues to flow around them, he listens to the soft vibrations of America's throat against his forehead as his voice fills the air, clear as the toll of a bell, resonating and tender and quiet all at the same time. He lets himself get pulled along in the lulling beauty of it, and when the song ends and the room falls into silence once more, he whispers, "Thank you." America knows what he means, and holds him close.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The songs are (in order): "Like A Prayer" by Madonna, "Love Game" by Lady Gaga, and "All Or Nothing" by Theory of a Deadman. I sincerely apologize if this piece came out awful . . . I was really tired/suffering a bout of writer's block when I wrote it. And I could've done better with my song selections and characterizations and reactions to the songs and the crappy formatting, but . . . I was in a rush. And I'm really sorry if I got any of the lyrics wrong. ORZ**

**Title's taken from a line in "All Or Nothing."**


	6. DAY SIX: Sea Angel

**~ x ~ x ~ x ~**

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><p><strong>[Day 6]<strong>

**"Worlds Beyond"**

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><p><em><strong>SEA ANGEL<strong>_

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><p>Late afternoon, and Arthur could already see the moon glowing among the veils of cloud in the sky. It was as pale as the flesh of an unripe peach; the sight of it sent a chill down his spine, a hint of dread that he tried hard to ignore as he hurried along the wooden walkway parallel to the beach. Stray bits of sand pricked the soles of his bare feet, wormed between his toes, and scraped his skin raw. But Arthur didn't let the discomfort slow him down in the slightest. He had lived by the ocean all his life — a little sand now and then meant nothing to him.<p>

He had to reach the far end of the shore before dusk set in, and the Sense told him, in no uncertain terms, that time was running out.

His grandmother — back when she was still alive — had been a mystic, one of those fortune-tellers that wore exotic perfume and layers upon layers of gauze scarves and strings of color-changing beads, with a shawl pulled low over her forehead and rings weighing down her fingers. She owned a shop that was among Palonea's many local tourist attractions. Her customers were skeptics about ninety percent of the time, but she had taught Arthur's mother, and Arthur himself, that the Sense was not something to be taken lightly.

Arthur had grown up playing with his grandmother's tarot cards and crystal ball. He hadn't derived any otherworldly wisdom from them — the tarot cards always fell at random and the crystal ball remained hazy under his inexperienced scrutiny — but he'd discovered he didn't need them. The Sight seemed to simultaneously skip generations in his family and strengthen with each passing generation, which would explain both why Arthur's mother, Eileen, had no trace of the Sense, and why Arthur could not only perceive things beyond the normal five senses, but also delve into the future.

No one outside his family knew, of course. He had no wish to pursue his grandmother's vocation and advertise his peculiarity, preferring instead to keep his abilities under lock and key, though he could not help the visions that came to him any more than he could prevent himself from sneezing. His patterns of foresight had gotten so unpredictable lately that he often found himself sleepwalking around the house, searching for something that he couldn't pinpoint a purpose for. Upon waking, he was left with nothing but the impression that whatever it was, it was something that he _needed_.

Was it a tool of some kind? A certain set of clothes? A book? Arthur had no idea — but the odd, foretelling twinge deep in the pit of his stomach told him that he was going to find it today . . . if he got to the beach in time.

He could see the cliff-side rocks breaking the horizon in the distance, and adrenaline rushed through him as he instinctively broke into a run, cursing as the sand tugged at his heels and pulled his steps out from under him, hell-bent on doing its best to hinder his progress. When he reached the rocks, he clambered right over them with ease borne of years of practice, his heart pounding with anticipation and something almost close to fear —

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimmer of . . . something. It drew his attention like a magnet, and he immediately headed in that direction, nearly twisting his ankles on the ragged, uneven ground in his haste. He knew, just _knew_, that it was the thing he had been looking for all long, though he couldn't quite say _how_ he knew, or why it would be _here_, out in what could be considered the middle of nowhere, close enough to the ocean to be dragged away by its tides and lost forever in the waves. But he wasn't going to ask questions. The Sense would tell him everything he needed to know when he needed to know it.

When he got close enough, he stopped dead in his tracks. And gaped.

It was a young man, basking on a flat rock in the dying afternoon light. He had shiny, sun-bleached blond hair, still damp from the water, and a gorgeously built chest that belonged on the cover of a magazine starring swimsuit models. Muscles graced his arms, his midriff, and, further down . . .

Was that a _tail_? Arthur yelped and stumbled backward, nearly losing his balance. The man's head snapped up, and ocean-blue eyes met Arthur's in a moment of surprise and confusion. He flipped his tail over — light glancing off the glistering blue-green scales, the parted fin slapping against the rock's surface, body rippling with hidden grace and strength — and poised to dive into the water, but paused at the last second. His gaze slid to Arthur, then to the water, then back to Arthur again in a quick, indecisive dance. As if he couldn't decide whether Arthur was interesting enough to hold his attention, or whether he should give in to his flight instinct and leave before more humans showed up.

Arthur regained control over his trembling knees and sank down into a crouch, as close as he dared to get to the half-man, half-fish creature. He didn't want to spook him into . . . into . . . damn it, he couldn't remember any specific examples of the merfolk harming people in the old myths besides singing them to underwater deaths, but . . . or were those sirens? Well, either way, he didn't want to cause offense, especially not when the consequences could lead to him to an unfortunate end. He stammered, feeling rather ridiculous, "Are you a — a —"

The man tilted his head curiously. "A what?" he sang. His voice was deeper than Arthur would have guessed, superimposed with what sounded like a thousand subtle melodies, all guitar strums and cello notes and clarinet trills. It held Arthur in thrall for several very long seconds.

Then, blinking, he came back to himself with a _snap_.

"Sorry — er — if you don't mind my asking, are you a . . . mer-mermaid?"

"No." A glance downward. "I'm male."

Arthur cursed his own stupidity, though he wondered what the creature had been checking, since there was only the meld of his skin into scales across his hips and no . . . visible reproductive organ. "Of course, I didn't mean — no — I meant —"

The mer_man_ flopped onto his stomach, propping his head up with his hands, and laughed: a low peal that seemed to thread through the ground and vibrate in Arthur's bones.

"What?" demanded Arthur, defensive, enraptured.

"You're funny." A cheeky grin that revealed straight white teeth.

Arthur sputtered. "Excuse me! I am _not_ funny! In fact, I am probably the _least_ funniest person I know, you sod!" The merman just giggled harder, his tail quivering with mirth and reflecting wobbly little sparkles all over the rocks around them. A handful of them landed on Arthur's thigh, and he stared, traced them with a finger, not aware of what he was doing until he glanced up and saw the merman watching him with equal fascination.

Their eyes met. Then, after a moment, the merman said slowly, tone playful, "Do you want to touch?"

"Touch?" Arthur's mouth suddenly went dry. "Touch . . . what?"

"This." The tail wagged in the air, prompting another dazzling display of glitter.

Oh. _Oh_. Now that the idea had been implanted in his mind, Arthur could think of nothing else. His hands, which had been lying in his lap, began to inch forward, drawn to the merman by some unknown force that was vaguely unsettling but completely intoxicating. "R-really?" Arthur swallowed, his gaze pinned to the languorous sway of that long, supple, _beautiful_ limb, drinking in the texture of the scales and the translucent fin with his eyes. "May — may I?"

Another wag. "Go ahead."

Needing no other invitation, Arthur clambered toward the merman and, settling down at his side, tentatively set a hand on the elegant taper at the end of his tail, where it fanned out into the impressive caudal fin. It was cool to the touch, the tiny plates sharp around the edges but smooth along the tops, tightly fitted one over another like the slats on a roof. Arthur could feel the warmth of life right below the surface, where it pulsed in sync with the merman's heartbeat. It didn't diffuse directly to his fingertips, but it was undoubtedly _there_. The fin itself — when his hand slid into its soft folds — was silky and durable, the decorative little ruffles able to fold back to streamline the fin and maximize swimming speed. At certain angles, it even appeared to shimmer.

Almost unconsciously, Arthur's hand began to travel upward. The tail widened, the scales more loosely slotted together the farther he went, presumably to allow easier movement. The heat of the merman's body was tangible now, radiating from the minute gaps between the chips of wavering color. His fingers abruptly touched something softer — skin — and Arthur realized he'd made it all the way up to the plane between merman's hips, the place where the human part of his body melted into the aquatic part. Curious, Arthur rubbed at the boundary, using perhaps a bit more pressure than he was supposed to — because his fingertips suddenly dipped _under_ the layer of scales and encountered . . .

With a surprised hiss, the merman grabbed Arthur's wrist and guided it away. Arthur looked up, alarmed.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Did I hurt you?"

A shake of the head.

"Are you sure?"

The merman nodded, his expression faintly nervous.

Arthur glanced back down at the seam between skin and scales, and — seeing the bulge that had appeared there — felt understanding dawn on him. He flushed red with embarrassment. "Oh, God, I just . . . touched your . . . I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to —"

Without so much as a warning, the merman rolled away from Arthur and, coiling his muscles, flipped himself into the air. He seemed to hang suspended for a moment, his back arched gracefully, the perfect tableau of beauty and otherworldliness, before vanishing into the water with a large splash. Arthur flinched as the droplets rained down on him, drenching his white shirt and cargo shorts. "Wait!" he called desperately, leaning over the edge of the rock, his eyes flickering back and forth as he searched for the merman among the dark-blue waves. "I've already apologized — I wasn't trying to make you feel uncomfortable! At — at least tell me your name before you go!"

Wet blond hair broke the water's surface, and the merman bobbed back into view. He grinned up at Arthur. "It's Alfred," he said, not seeming at all upset, and his dripping hand shot out and closed right around Arthur's groin. Arthur gasp-squeaked as the sensation shot straight up his spine. "There, now we're even. Same time, same place tomorrow, okay?"

"What? All right, but —" Arthur was still in shock.

Alfred laughed. "Bye!" And he disappeared again into the ocean — only this time, he didn't re-emerge. Arthur caught sight of a sleek black outline speeding along in the water into the distance, soon too far away to be distinguishable.

He continued to stare for a long time after. Had the Sense led him there that evening to be . . . _groped_? By a _merman_? What in the world was that saying about his future?

_Same time, same place tomorrow, okay?_

Even though he was more confused than ever — or perhaps _because_ of it — Arthur resolved to return. He couldn't help it. All that was left in his head was the sound of Alfred's voice, the feel of his tail, the warmth of his hand. Alfred had absolutely enchanted him and left him with a thousand questions, and he needed answers almost as badly as he wanted to see his sea angel again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Another poor, rushed victim of writer's block. I hope it's still relatively decent. . . . And sorry for being a tease, 'cause I totally didn't have the time/concentration/attention span to write smut. But if people request a sequel, well . . . I'll do my best to reward my followers (with gay UK/US/UK merman sex). XD**


	7. DAY SEVEN: Love Has A Flavor

**~ x ~ x ~ x ~**

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><p><strong>[Day 7]<strong>

**"Valentine's Day"**

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><p><em><strong>LOVE HAS A FLAVOR<br>**_

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><p>Everybody knows that England likes to play hard-to-get. Of course, he will never <em>admit<em> to it, no matter how coaxing and bribing and seducing he's had to endured from his former lovers — France, Prussia, Austria, Portugal, India, Japan, and probably a few others that he can't remember at the moment. He has an over-a-thousand-year-old image — and an equally ancient reputation — to uphold, after all.

So it's only natural that he scowls when America shows up on his doorstep at seven in the evening with a suitcase and a dozen roses (and it's also natural that he turns away to keep him from seeing his cherry-red blush and the smile that threatens to overturn his frown). It's natural that he gets upset when he realizes one of the roses is crafted from crimson, man-made cloth instead of nature's smooth velvet (even though he knows what it means, and his heart throbs beautifully with the knowledge). And _it's natural_ that when America hastily explains the reason behind the faux rose — he'd read somewhere on the internet that a guy gave his girlfriend a similar bouquet, saying, "I'll love you until the last rose dies" to immortalize his feelings for her — England is inclined to scoff at his sentimental silliness . . . even as his eyes begin to prick with tears, even as he wants to fling himself into America's arms and kiss him senseless and hold on for dear life (and dear heart).

He covers up his watery eyes by fussing over the elegant flowers, cutting the stems, finding a vase, and arranging the gift on his dining room table. He hides the fact that, despite the wild roses growing in his backyard by the hundreds, he treasures these store-bought, ribbon-bound ones more than any others he has ever seen.

When he comes back into the hall, America sweeps him up into a dizzying kiss that leaves them both gasping for breath, and thus England misses seeing the red-and-white box that America has secretly set aside on the tiny shelf near the door. And he even forgets about making tea when America says cheerfully, "Get dressed in something nice, babe — we're going out for dinner tonight."

He's surprised — and touched — that America's done his research before flying over, but he shows it through nothing except the way he gently squeezes America's hand on the drive to the restaurant, their fingers intertwined over the gear shift, a medley of pale and tanned fingers. The silver ring on his finger, the one that America gave him on their first anniversary as a couple, glitters in the light from the passing street lamps.

They return to England's house an hour and a half later, full and happy and slightly tipsy from all the champagne, and kick off their shoes before heading straight for the stairs. America makes sure to snag the box from earlier (though he keeps it hidden from England's view) — then they're stumbling up the steps, giggling and kissing and tripping over each other, like a pair of teenagers that has gotten past the awkward chasteness of the first date and now wants nothing more than to fall into bed together. Somewhere along the way, England decides, _To hell with dignity_, and tackles America, sending them sprawling across the landing in a tangle of limbs. Their lips meet — once, twice, then again and again as the momentum they've built up begins moving out of their control, England straddling America's waist and feeling strong arms come up around him in a tight embrace that promises to never let go.

They've been apart for nearly a month, and aroused though he is, England doesn't want their Valentine's Day reunion sex to happen on the _stairs_. So he breaks the suction of their mouths, and pulls America up with him as he regains his feet. With a smile that he's no longer able to hide, he leads him into the bedroom, where they lock the door and dive onto the mattress together, bodies and lips already engaged again as though there's a magnetic attraction guiding them together.

Several minutes, a lost tie, and a partially-unbuttoned shirt later, America's hands suddenly leave him. England opens his eyes, confused, slowly returning to himself as America sits back and finally produces the box.

"Before we . . . uh . . . y'know, I kind of want to try these first."

England looks at the box. "Try what?" he asks, suddenly suspicious of its contents.

America sees his expression and laughs. "Don't worry — it's nothing dangerous." He takes the top off, tossing the shiny plastic wrapping aside, and offers the box to England for inspection. "See? Just a bunch of chocolates. With different types of fillings."

"Always thinking of food, aren't you?" England sighs, slightly disappointed that America's sweet tooth has chosen to make itself known at such an inconvenient moment. Still, a part of him is interested in where this is going. Surely America intends to do . . . _more_ than just tasting chocolates, since he'd specifically waited until they've gotten to the bed to bring them out, right?

He isn't disappointed, because America replies with a wink, "Not really. My main focus right now isn't food." He kisses England on the nose. "There's a game I want to play with you, involving the chocolates."

"Oh?"

"It's called 'Guess the Flavor.' Since all the chocolates have different syrups and stuff in them, it'll be really fun to mess around and see how many of them we get right."

England raises an eyebrow, his hopes for a saucy experiment with the sweets dashed again. "That's not very creative."

"Yeah, it is." America's wearing his _I know something you don't and once I tell you what it is you'll be all over me_ grin. "'Cause we're going to be feeding the chocolates to each other with our mouths. The person on the receiving end has to make the guess."

_That_ is what England's been waiting for. Putting on his most seductive smile — and feeling immensely pleased when America seems to melt under his gaze — he says, "All right. I accept your challenge."

Getting into the spirit, America shrugs off his jacket (though he stops there, leaving on the rest of his clothing, even as England mentally urges him to keep stripping). Then he plucks a round, milk chocolate truffle from the box and holds it up. "This one first," he says, and pops it into his own mouth. He doesn't chew it, however; instead, he cups England under the jaw with one hand and presses their mouths together, parting his lips to slide the chocolate into England's mouth with his tongue. Senses tingling from the intimacy, England can't help but kiss America back for a moment before pulling away. He bites through the soft, sweet shell of the truffle and blinks when the tangy flavor within bursts across his tongue.

"Er . . . strawberry?"

America checks the list on the inside cover of the box, matching the chocolate's position in the tray to its name on the diagram. "Yup!"

Well, that was easy. England smirks. "My turn." He lifts a chocolate — this one's shaped like a tiny pyramid — and places it in his mouth.

This time, the kiss is longer and more intense, neither of them able to get enough of the other in the short time it takes to exchange the sweet between them. The pyramid is half-melted, a hint of its filling seeping across both of their tastebuds, before England succeeds in pushing it into the pouch of America's cheek. He watches as America chews thoughtfully, and prompts somewhat breathlessly, "Well?"

"Hmm . . . I think I have to say . . . uh . . ."

"What, admitting defeat already?" England teases, and America puffs up, pretending to be offended.

"'Course not! It's crème brûlée!"

England looks at the list to make sure. "Yes, that's right."

America grins. "Awesome!"

The game continues for quite a while. England gets raspberry, caramel, vanilla, and coffee in succession, which he all names correctly. America receives trickier ones: tiramisu, lime, and mint — though he has little trouble identifying the last one, given his penchant for minty chewing gum. A couple of unexpected flavors crop up, such as tangerine, and those are the only ones they guess wrong. One or two of them make England cringe and question the chocolatier's abilities, like the small square of dark chocolate mixed with sea salt, while America straight-up chokes on the chocolate tube that contains traces of ghost pepper. Soon, two-thirds of the chocolates in the box have been consumed, and the potpourri of flavors is beginning to blend into one indistinguishable taste on England's tongue. After his guess is wrong on the fourth one in a row (he thinks it's mango, when it's really peach) and America makes a mistake too (green tea, not pistachio), they decide to take a break, which quickly evolves into their previous activity of preparing to ravish each other.

Their kisses now tinged with every fruity and savory taste from every corner of the earth, they discard the rest of their clothes and burrow deep under the covers, where England relishes the cool, silky feel of the sheets on his bare skin and America's hot hands on his chest, his navel, his hips. He curves soundlessly into America's touch when it reaches his hardening length, his body responding eagerly as he receives stimulation from something other than his own hand for the first time since their last reunion. Then he feels America's lips on his neck, teeth edging gently into a tendon, and it's enough to make his fingernails dig into the warm, muscular back under his hands as he cries out.

The lube is retrieved from a drawer in his nightstand; the new, unopened package of condoms materializes in a shopping bag stowed under the bed. America is ever so careful as he eases his fingers in and out, the soft friction creating pleasant tingles instead of sparks of pain. When England pulls at his wrist and demands that he come in _now_, America doesn't hold back. They join together enthusiastically, influenced by love and lust and their long time apart, every sensation relearned, re-memorized as a level rhythm rolls their hips together. Occasionally they kiss, but more often than not America's mouth is trailing down the tender hollow behind England's ear, and England is lost in the heat of his lips against America's throat, reveling in the quiet moans and hard gasps of his lover as he draws them out of him.

When they both near the end, America flips them, turning onto his back and guiding England to mount him. England leans down, pressing the lengths of their bodies together, and breathes in America's scent, the earthy tones of his land, the mild leather spice of his cologne, the salty sweetness of his sweat. He feels America's heart beating against his own ribs, their skin pulsing in tandem, and it's so beautiful, so _complete_ that he finally allows the tears to fall.

America seems to feel the drops on his chest, because he tilts England's face to his and kisses away every single one of them. Then he brings their mouths together and lets England taste himself, his own voiceless happiness, on their intertwined tongues. They stay that way until America reaches his climax; then England finds himself eased down on his back, and America slides down his slender form and suckles on him, teases him, licks his member with long, loving strokes, and swallows his release when it comes at last.

They lie in each other's arms, contently nestled among the pillows and blankets. After several long, quiet minutes, England realizes he still hasn't heard what he's been waiting to hear from America. He shifts his head, nuzzling against America's hand where it had been caressing his hair, and whispers, "America? Isn't . . . isn't there something you're . . . forgetting?"

America's brow furrows, then smooths out as he understands. His smile is soft, tender, as he says gently, "It goes without saying, baby . . . I love you."

It's all right to admit his feelings out loud just this once, England thinks, because this has nothing to do with image or reputation or dignity. This is about giving and receiving, about strengthening the connection between them with the truth. This is about letting America hear the words he deserves, letting England reconcile himself with those words, letting the two of them be bound by their vows in a way that no physical union can achieve. This is about _them_, and only them.

"I love you, too, America."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The last fic for Sweethearts Week! It's been a hectic, romantic seven days, huh? I hope you've enjoyed reading these entries as much as I've enjoyed writing them~**

**The poll for sequels/continuations should be up within the next few days. Hope you stick around to vote. :)**


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